


"I AM THE LAW!"

by Leidolette



Category: Cracked: After Hours
Genre: Dredd (2012) - Freeform, Gen, M/M, very light romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-08 21:04:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8861995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leidolette/pseuds/Leidolette
Summary: Katie, Michael, Soren, and Dan sit down to discuss the 2012 film Dredd. A certain quote is said many, many times.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Choisir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Choisir/gifts).



It was Friday night, and the usual crowd entered right on time.

"I am the law!" Michael yelled to the nearly empty diner. The few patrons present glanced over before going back to their meals.

His compatriots ignored him too, seeing as they had spent most of the drive over putting up with his outbursts. "We really should do this more often," Dan said as they all took a seat. "It's kind of nice seeing an older movie at the dollar theater, for a change."

Katie half-nodded. "Yeah, mixing up the scenery wasn't bad. Especially since we got a full movie schedule coming up soon with all the holiday releases."

They sat at their usual table, in their usual configuration. Dan next to Soren, Katie next to Michael. When the waiter came around, each ordered their usual meal from the menu. The waiter -- an old hand -- didn't even have to write anything down.

"So," Michael said, beginning the opening volley after the waiter left. "Dredd. Thoughts? Impressions? Bizarre, improbable theories?"

"I, for one, would like to applaud this film for going back to one of the finest nineties tropes, and playing it completely straight," Soren said after taking a sip of coffee.

"And what trope is that?" Dan asked, the slightest smile starting at the corner of his mouth betrayed just how much he enjoyed these weekly discussions.

"The experimental, enterprising drug dealer trope," Soren said. "In the nineties, every other run-of-the-mill street gang was somehow developing cutting edge pharmaceuticals that could completely alter human perception."

"Ma-Ma must have like, twenty Walter Whites working in a laboratory that puts Pfizer to shame in order to develop something like Slo-Mo," Michael butted in. "Frankly, all those gang member should be nominated for a Nobel Prize in chemistry."

"So, do you think the drug actually slow down time in your brain? Or just strings you out?" Dan said.

"Since when does some skeevy movie street drug ever do anything useful?" Katie said.

"If it did though, that would be incredibly efficient. You could learn stuff super quick. Inception everything," Dan pointed out.

"Sort of like a next-level Adderall," Soren said, catching on.

"Yeah, the Ma-Ma Clan would probably make twice as much selling Slo-Mo to over-achieving college students than the poor, broke citizens of the apartment blocks," Katie said. "Way more safe, too."

"Maybe that was Ma-Ma's plan," Soren said. "First step: Peach Trees apartment block. Second step: Mega-City One State University."

Katie opened her mouth to further discuss the ins and outs of drug-assisted academics when Michael interrupted her. "Guys, what are we doing here? Talking about studying? Good god, if I wanted to talk with a bunch of nerds about books and tests, I would have finished high school--"

"Hey, watch who you're calling 'nerd,'" Soren interrupted, jabbing his finger at Michael.

"--The real question is," Michael continued, ignoring Soren, "Which gang would you join? It's probably the most important decision you'll make as a citizen of Mega-City One."

"You might not get much of a choice, you know. Gangs aren't really known for respecting personal agency," Dan said.

"I think we should all join the Judged," Michael said. "It's just like face painting at a fair -- but permanent. Plus, what a cool name."

"No face tattoos," Soren said firmly. "I need this." He gestured to his chiseled face. Dan gave the slightest of nods, seemingly without noticing.

"What about you, Katie?" Dan asked.

"Oh, Katie's already in a gang," Michael said casually around a mouthful of french fries.

Soren and Dan's heads whipped around as one to stare at Katie.

Katie looked surprised herself. "What, no I'm not!"

"Yes you are. What about those girls you hang around? The tough ones," Michael continued.

"Those are my friends."

"You call yourself 'The Delinquent Ratz.'"

"Totally normal!" she protested.

"Matching skull tattoos."

"Um," Dan said.

"Just a fun pal thing!"

"You all robbed that convenience store together," Michael finished.

"That was as a goof?" Katie said, very unsure now.

"Uh, sounds like you're in a gang, Katie," Soren said.

Katie rolled up her left sleeve, revealing a palm-sized 'D-RATZ 4 LYFE' superimposed on a flaming skull tattoo on her bicep. She stared at it like she'd never seen it before. "Oh my god," she whispered, "I'm in a gang."

"Well, now that we've established who Judge Dredd would ruthlessly dispose of first, since she would obviously be a member of the criminal element infesting Mega-City One, we can move on." Soren said. "Enjoy your ten year iso-cube sentence, Katie."

Katie didn't respond. She was still busy contemplating her arm, and the sudden truth of the life that she led.

The waiter chose that moment to come by with their food, however. Nothing eased a person through an identity crisis like a bunch of greasy comfort food. It allowed Katie to force her recent revelations back into a box labeled 'denial,' and also reminded her of a third talking point regarding Dredd.

"Okay, we know that this future isn't going full Soylent Green, as shown by the fat guy eating chips in his apartment, but it's pretty horrible anyways. So, how likely is it that we'll all be sweating it out in abject poverty in a 100-story tall, rotting megacity block in forty year's time?" Katie said.

"Oh, it's one hundred percent sure going to happen," Soren said, radiating absolute confidence.

"Really," Dan raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, come on," Soren spread his hands, "All the signs are there. Global warming? Police brutality? Fascist leadership? Do those ring any bells?"

"Ooooh, Soren's getting political at the diner!" Michael said, nearly clapping his hands with delight.

"Just facts, man," Soren said sanguinely. "That's why I'm already prepping myself for a career in Judge Dredding in our certain dystopian future."

"Yeah, and how are you doing that?" Katie asked.

"Two ways -- one: I'm taking night classes at the law school."

"...That actually sounds like it might be a decent career move," Dan said, impressed.

"Two: my survivalist neighbor is taking me out to the desert this weekend to show me some skills."

"Is this the same neighbor who always dresses in camo and only eats canned food that he has boiled in bleach?" Katie squinted at Soren.

"Yep," he said, without a trace of reservation.

"Wow, Soren, that sounds so fun!" Michael said in a cheery, fake, too-loud voice. Then he grabbed the pen the waiter had dropped off with the check and started writing on a napkin, narrating his words aloud, "Note to self: the group will soon need a replacement handsome bully. Recruit new member from 80's movie villain central casting department?"

"Hey, you won't be quipping so much when I'm Judging people left and right, and you're busy being being robbed at the local future-McDonalds," Soren said with an infuriating air of superiority. "Also, these gang and Judge questions are probably irrelevant As we've gone over before, statistically, all of us would be part of the boring, run-of-the-mill, downtrodden citizenry," said Soren.

"I like to think that I would be the guy in the beginning who was squashed by the blast doors," Michael said.

"Dream big, Michael," Dan said, deadpan.

"But could we be psychics? They're downtrodden _and_ cool," Katie said.

But Soren was already shaking his head. "Nope, if you want to be a cool psychic mutant, you got to play mutation roulette like the rest of the poor saps. The odds are 10,000 to 1 that you'll get psychic powers. The odds are 2 to 1 that you'll just grow a third ear -- and not on your head, either."

"Actually, in the comics, mutants were--"

"No, Dan," the table said in unison.

Dan frowned, but didn't look particularly surprised by the reaction. "Okay, just look at the first _movie_ then. Judge Dredd, 1995. All the mutants in that film were pretty messed up -- physically and mentally." Dan paused, considering. "Murderers and cannibals too, if that's a dealbreaker."

Michael thought for a moment, then made a side-to-side, 'meh' motion with his hands.

Katie jumped in. "Oh! Is it time to discus the Stallone movie? Because, I'm a kind of surprised to say that I'm nostalgic for it."

"Really?" Dan asked with some surprise. "Most life-long Judge Dredd fans would say that the 2012 version is much more in the spirit of the original comic book. Judge Dredd never takes his helmet off the entire film, despite Karl Urban being a decent-sized star."

"Yeah, but the first movie had Sylvester Stalone yelling 'I am the law,'" Katie pointed out. "That's pretty hard to beat."

Soren and Michael both nodded. For once, they were united in their of love of a badass tagline, even if it was maybe a little bit stupid. Maybe _especially_ if it was a little stupid. "I am the law!" Michael said, getting into the swing of things.

"Sorry, Michael, I believe _I_ am the law," Katie said.

"Actually, you guys, _I_ am the law," Dan said, smiling.

"Nope. Sorry everyone, but, as usual, _I_ am the law," Soren said, somehow seeming to square his jaw even more.

The group devolved into increasingly slurred and gravelly Sylvester Stallone impressions:

"I am the law!"

"I am the law!"

"I am the laaaw!"

All this chanting, combined with the gigantic brownie mudslide he'd consumed earlier, was starting to go to Michael's head. His exclamations got louder and louder, drowning out everyone else.

"I am the law!" he practically screamed.

"Hey! Calm down out there," yelled the short order cook from the back. "You're gonna get us a noise citation."

Being reminded of police and legal action, however, just got Michael more pumped up. He jumped up on his chair, and then onto the table.

"Michael! Get down," Dan said.

"I AM THE LAW!"

"Oh, goddamn it." Katie pressed her hand to her forehead.

* * *

Outside, a man passed in front of the diner for the third time in the last five minutes.

 _Okay, Jason,_ he thought to himself, _all you have to do is bust in and tell everyone to get on the floor. Then, order the cashier to open the register. That's all you have to do._

The man gripped the gun tucked into his coat pocket. It wasn't loaded, but no one had to know that. His hand was shaking -- he gripped the gun tighter and the shaking stopped. He let out a long breath, and steeled himself.

On his fourth time passing in front of the diner's side entrance, he went in, drawing his gun as he opened the door.

* * *

Inside, Michael continued unabated.

"I AM THE LAW!" Michael knocked one of the plates off the table with his stomping. Fries and ketchup spilled on the floor.

"Damn it, Michael, stop." Soren tried to grab at Michael's pant leg without success.

"That's it," the cook growled, "I don't care how regular you guys are, I'm kicking you out!" The cook took his apron off and made to come over to the dining area.

"Michael, you're going to get us banned!" Dan was genuinely distressed; he loved this diner.

At that very moment, the diner door burst open.

"Everybody on the floor! Lay face-down on the floor!" yelled the man with the gun.

There was the longest split-second of stunned, stupid silence. Katie's mouth dropped opened. Soren's gaze flicked over to Dan, before looking back at the man, his fists tightening. For a moment, nobody moved.

Nobody -- except Michael. With no hesitation whatsoever, Michael looked straight down the barrel of the gun, roared "I AM THE LAW" in a deep, bristle-brush voice no one had ever heard him use before, and kicked a half-full cup of coffee straight at the man's head. The mug hit his forehead with a heavy thud, and then the man was down, lying on the floor like a sack of potatoes. The whole episode had lasted perhaps three seconds.

Another beat of silence, then, "Holy shit, Michael," Dan whispered.

"I think you just killed a guy with a Dredd reference," Katie looked dazed.

The cook hurried out of the back as Soren got up and kneeled next to the man on the floor, taking the gun from his limp hand. The man was still, except for the rise and fall of his chest. There was a gigantic goose egg rising on his forehead. "He's not dead," Soren declared, "just knocked cold."

"Jesus, I'm calling the cops," the cook said, but he managed to shoot a weak smile at Michael before he whipped out his phone to dial 911.

"Hey, man, you're a hero," one of the other patrons called over to Michael.

"A hero," Michael repeated, a smile spreading slowly across his face. "A hero!" Michael threw his hands up in the air in triumph. Unfortunately, the motion caused him to overbalance, and the foot that was standing on a napkin slipped out from under him. Michael teetered for a second, arms windmilling wildly, before going down hard on the tile floor. He sprawled out, motionless, right next to the would-be robber, temporarily knocked senseless.

Now it was Michael turn to sprout a nicely sized goose egg on the back of his head from his collision with the floor.

"Shit! That's gonna be concussion number three," Katie fretted. "That can't be good for his brain."

"Yeah, he's probably mot going to remember any of this," Dan said with a sigh. "And this could have been the beginning of his superhero origin story too. He apparently has a real knack for fighting crime."

Michael stirred slightly on the floor, the rest of the group hovered over him "Oh, hey, guys, what are you doing here?" Michael slurred. "Is it time to see Dredd yet?" His gaze slid in and out of focus, and face was surprisingly childlike.

Katie responded in kind. "No, Michael," Katie said gently, over-enunciating every word, "it's time for you to go to bed." She patted his arm, and sent a meaningful glance to Dan and Soren. Each man draped one of Michael's long arms over their shoulders, and, between the three of them, they managed to wrangle Michael's dead weight out of the restaurant and into the car. As they clicked his seat belt into place, the faint whine of approaching sirens began in the distance.

Then the four of them drove off, leaving the understaffed diner workers to deal with the mess, the police, and the unconscious criminal on floor. But they would be back next week, with a brand-new subject and a brand-new conversation -- though hopefully without a brand-new head wound for Michael.


End file.
